


Scales

by November Snowflake (novembersnow)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-24
Updated: 2012-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-04 05:34:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novembersnow/pseuds/November%20Snowflake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Antagonism, invisibility, and music in the dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scales

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Maerda Erised. Originally posted December 9, 2002.
> 
> I shamelessly stole this plot idea from Maerda for the sake of writing her a birthday fic. Nice, eh? Also, please forgive any music-related errors, as Maerda is my beta and token musical friend, and I could not allow her to beta her own gift fic.

The corridor was dim and empty at this late hour, as Harry Potter slipped through the stone archway under the protection of his Invisibility Cloak. By now he knew precisely which doorway to approach, cautiously, lest the other person unknowingly involved in this nightly ritual had come early. But no, he was never early, never late. Harry crept through the door and slunk into the shadows in the corner, waiting only a few minutes until the door cracked open once again on the stroke of eleven.

He didn't stop to think it odd that one of the most consistent figures in his life happened to be Draco Malfoy.

The routine never varied. Malfoy stepped into the room and shed his school robes, dropping them across the ancient armchair next to the door, then loosened his tie and opened his collar, to the second button only. Next he flicked his wand at the wall sconces to light them, and glided across the room, flexing his long, pale fingers. The piano gleamed in the flickering light, its polished surface reflecting a ghostly Malfoy in shades of white and silver and gold. He took his seat at the keyboard and was still, his head bowed.

Harry held his breath.

Malfoy lifted one hand, holding it poised above the keys, just hovering, then his thumb caressed middle C. The clear note tolled, reverberated, and died.

Malfoy's eyes were closed, face rapt. Then he trailed his hand up the keyboard, stroking each individual key up the scale, making each note sing out in turn, perfectly tuned, perfectly lovely. Up, then down. Silence.

Always, always, this ritual—-the touching, the simple enjoyment of the notes. Harry had come to define this as one of his guiltiest pleasures, ever since the night he had first happened upon this secret exhibition. It had been the end of a long and trying day—-an argument with Ron, a distinct misadventure in Potions, and then a showdown with Malfoy that very nearly turned physical and culminated in a detention with Snape...for Harry alone. Frustrated, bitter, and resentful, he had waited until after curfew, then swirled on his Invisibility Cloak and snuck out of Gryffindor Tower, just walking through the darkened corridors. Up here, near the Muggle Studies classroom, he'd seen a light approaching from around the corner ahead, and had ducked into the first empty room—this music room, which Harry had never known existed. Closing the door silently behind him, he'd been awed by the sight of the grand piano, its luster reflecting the beams of moonlight that filtered through the jewel-paned windows. He'd nearly tossed aside his Invisibility Cloak to get a better look, when he heard the click of the door latch behind him, and instinctively retreated to the corner. His shock at nearly being discovered was exceeded only by his shock at the realization of who the intruder was--Draco Malfoy, the stark planes of his face highlighted by the faint gleam of his wand.

Harry could feel his rage bubbling up inside him and, almost without realizing it, he reached to pick up the first solid object that came to hand--an ornate but empty candelabrum—-bent on hurling it at Malfoy's rotten, pointy head. But he froze as Malfoy dropped his robes, lit the candles, and proceeded to the piano, unwillingly curious about the other boy's intentions. With the first notes he played, the tension seemed to drain from Malfoy's face with the ease of a discarded robe, and Harry realized he'd never seen him so relaxed. In fact, he didn't think he'd ever seen Malfoy take pleasure in anything that didn't involve taunting Harry, or getting Harry in trouble, or sabotaging Harry, or...well, at any rate, this was certainly unheard of.

Malfoy had played scales, then stopped, his eyes closed. The silence was absolute. Then, abruptly, his eyes flew open, and his fingers banged down on the keys, crashing out the first jarring notes of Beethoven's Fifth. Harry was transfixed. Malfoy was _good_. Oh, perhaps not brilliant, perhaps not a genius, but marvelously talented all the same. That impeccably groomed white-blond hair flew about his head as Malfoy threw himself into the pounding chords, and Harry was frozen stock-still, arrested by the utter intensity on the other boy's face, the almost maniacal gleam in his eyes, the deft way his fingers flew over the keys. The music thundered through the room, and Harry found himself unconsciously pressing a hand to his chest, as if to protect himself from its beauty. His eyes fluttered closed, and he let the notes wash over him, a crashing surf he was helpless to fight, and he feared he just might drown in it.

At precisely midnight, Malfoy had slid the cover into place over the keys and stood, stretching his arms toward the ceiling, a long, lean silhouette in the dim light. He shrugged into his robes, flicked his wand to snuff the sconces, then left with the same catlike ease with which he'd entered. Harry had sunk slowly into the armchair and tilted his head back, exhausted just from the act of listening.

The next night, Harry had found himself here again, almost against his will, in the uncomfortable hope that maybe, just maybe, there might be a repeat performance. It was just for the sake of blackmail, Harry tried to tell himself. Wouldn't the other Slytherins be shocked to know that Malfoy spent his nights on a Muggle instrument, playing the works of Muggle composers? It was a delicious piece of knowledge, and surely he could hold it in reserve until such time as it became useful. All he'd have to do is say, "I know how you spend your nights." Or maybe he'd whistle a bit of Beethoven. Or mention "scales." He almost craved a chance to see Malfoy's gray eyes grow wider and wider as he realized Harry Potter knew his secret. For it had to be a secret, didn't it? Why else would he be here after curfew? Did Dumbledore know about this? Did Filch?

But he wasn't feeling particularly vindictive that second night. It had been a pretty good day all around—-made up with Ron, no encounters with Snape, an A on his Transfiguration essay, and very little contact with Malfoy, other than a brief exchange of snarled "Potter" and "Malfoy" just outside the Great Hall after dinner. The last was just the right cap to a pleasant day—-Malfoy might think they were on equal footing, or even that he had the upper hand, but Harry knew better. He knew Malfoy's secret.

Harry had stolen into the room around 10:45 and stood, invisible, in the corner. He almost didn't dare hope he'd be so lucky as to have it happen again. Surely it was too good to be true. Maybe he'd imagined the whole thing in a fit of rage-induced madness the night before.

But no, at exactly eleven o'clock, the door had swung open and Draco Malfoy once again entered the music room. Robe. Tie. Lights. Scales. Then a pause. And again, music. This time, Chopin—-light, intricate, lovely. Harry closed his eyes and smiled dreamily, the dancing notes further mellowing his mood. He leaned against the cool stone wall, wishing he could curl up in the armchair and totally relax to the music. But he feared a mysterious indentation (or, worse, should the cloak be draped wrong, a half-invisible armchair) might attract Malfoy's attention, and thus deprive Harry of this strange pleasure.

And it was a pleasure. This he stopped trying to deny at that point. It didn't matter who the music-maker was, really, just that the end result was sublime beauty. Harry didn't often claim a weakness for beautiful things, but for this, strange as it seemed, he could make an exception.

Malfoy played several pretty, delicate pieces that made Harry want to sway, want to tap his feet in time. But he resisted the urge, afraid Malfoy would discern the sound of his trainers thumping against the hard stone floor, especially as—-he could admit without much embarrassment—-he knew his tapping probably would be off-tempo anyway. Harry Potter was blessed with many things, but rhythm was not one of them.

When midnight came, it was, again, the same procedure—close piano, stretch, don robe, dim lights, depart. Harry had sighed once as the door closed, and knew he would come again.

And he had, almost every night for the last three weeks. Every night was the same routine, with only the tone of the music changing. One night it would be sweeping classical works, the next show tunes, the next ragtime. Harry presumed Malfoy's choices might have had to do with his mood on a particular night; oddly, they seemed to reflect Harry's as well. The night Harry was in a towering rage over an unprovoked verbal attack on Hermione that had ended in Harry taking his fists to the Slytherin's sneering face, he still found himself drawn to the music room. Somehow he was unsurprised to find Malfoy choosing to play dissonant modern pieces.

Tonight, though...tonight, he was simply tired. Hermione was draining the life out of him and Ron by forcing them to study constantly for their N.E.W.T.s, which wouldn't even take place until spring. ("Yes," she'd replied when they tried this line of logic on her, "and that means we have only seven months left to prepare. Why, that's practically nothing!") It was Sunday, but their arguments about enjoying the last of the nice fall weekends fell on deaf ears, and they all ended up spending the entire afternoon in the library. He was dizzy with facts—-potion ingredients, historic uprisings, charms procedures. And there were still seven months to go, he groaned silently.

The words in his textbooks had begun to swim in front of his eyes, so he looked up at one point and noticed none other than Malfoy sitting alone at a table on the opposite side of the library. One long-fingered hand cradled his temple as he read, and the other stroked, apparently unconsciously, up and down the edge of the book's pages. Harry was absurdly fascinated with those hands—-the way the fingers curled over the boy's gilt hair just so, the way the blunt fingernails trailed along the book's edge. He couldn't help remembering what those white, elegant hands were capable of—-the pounding chords, the delicate harmonies, the deliberation of scales—-and didn't even realize he'd been staring until he noticed Malfoy staring back, customary sneer in evidence. Startled, Harry hastily looked down at his own book, absorbing himself in his studies for the rest of the day, and trying vainly to suppress all thoughts of pale, talented fingers and a fine-boned face set instead in an expression of intense and private pleasure.

He'd been almost too tired to even bother sneaking out of Gryffindor to come here tonight, but...he couldn't stay away. He couldn't explain it, and didn't even try. He just knew, somehow, that his night would be incomplete if he didn't listen to Malfoy play. So, here he was, and Malfoy was at the keys, his eyes closed, fingers hovering. What would it be tonight? Something soothing, Harry hoped. And even as the thought flitted through his mind, Malfoy's hands began to float over the keys. Brahms.

Harry often couldn't identify the pieces Malfoy played—-even less frequently the composers—-the bulk of his early musical exposure having been at the hands of the Dursleys: Uncle Vernon, who had a disturbing affection for polkas; Aunt Petunia, whose all-time favorite song was "Muskrat Love"; and Dudley, who, oddly enough, had taken a liking to American rap music at an early age, likely because it distressed his parents. But there'd been a Music Appreciation class at his Muggle primary school, and sometimes he recognized melodies he'd heard in there. This, however, wasn't one of them. He couldn't consciously remember where he'd heard it before, but he knew it somehow. He searched through the reaches of his mind, trying to pinpoint it, like a niffler sifting for gold in the sand. It was lovely, lovely. Pretty and soothing and somehow evocative of warmth and comfort and gentle...gentle...slumber....

Harry jerked himself awake as he felt his back start to slide down the wall, flinging his hand out to steady himself, and accidentally knocking into the old candelabrum. He made a desperate grab for it, but to no avail—-it clattered loudly to the floor. Abruptly the music stopped. Malfoy's hands had lifted from the keys, and his eyes were riveted to Harry's shadowy corner. "Who's there?"

Harry was silent, fists clenched, praying.

"Who's there?" Malfoy demanded, standing now. "I know someone is there!"

Harry started to slide sideways along the wall, away from the fallen candelabrum, clinging to a wild, desperate hope of easing his way toward the door. But his foot caught in the hem of the cloak, and he stumbled, yelping as he fell forward onto the stone floor.

A pair of impeccable Italian leather loafers appeared in front of his nose. Panning slowly upward, he groaned as he saw Malfoy's startled expression, realizing the hood had been dislodged in his fall. "Potter," the Slytherin said, quite casually, "why is your head on the floor?"

He hoisted himself to his knees, brushing the dust off his invisible front as he slowly rose to his feet, determinedly not making eye contact. "Well," he muttered, reluctantly slipping off the cloak, "that's because the rest of me was on the floor as well."

"And, pray tell, what is any part of you doing in this room?"

Now he looked Malfoy dead in the eye. "I might ask the same of you."

But Malfoy gave a very unsatisfying shrug of dismissal. "I have permission to be here, Potter. Ask the headmaster if you don't believe me. So, you see, I do not have to go skulking about in"—-a pointed look—-"an _Invisibility Cloak_."

Harry wasn't sure what to say. For all his over six years of casual rule-breaking at Hogwarts, he wasn't as facile a liar as others might have been. He cursed his damnable streak of honesty. Or at least the nerves that were driving every attempt at a creative excuse out of his head.

"I was just...walking, and—-I, well—-that is—-"

Malfoy stood with his arms crossed over his chest, one expensively shod foot tapping slowly, his expression consigning Harry to some level of life form lower than that of a flobberworm.

Finally Harry stopped his muttering and squirming, and, unable to contain himself any longer, exclaimed, "You play the piano, Malfoy!" His eyes were wide.

Malfoy's returning gaze was level. He quirked an eyebrow. "Yes. I do."

"But...why?"

"I don't owe you any explanations, Potter."

"Does the rest of your House know?"

Malfoy stepped closer, so they were practically toe-to-toe. "No. And I'd prefer to keep it that way."

Harry set his mouth. "Then tell me why."

"I don't have to stand for this pitiful attempt at blackmail. Bloody stupid Gryffindor," he sneered. "No one would believe you anyway."

Harry narrowed his eyes at Malfoy's smug expression. "Maybe. But there might be just enough doubt planted that someone might decide to check on you one night. Maybe follow you here. You ready to take that risk, Malfoy?" He crossed his arms in a deliberate mirroring of the other boy's stance, and waited.

Their faces were close, their folded arms almost touching between them, and Harry could see the expressions flitting through Malfoy's eyes, like shifting patterns of smoke. Finally Malfoy sighed, scowling. "One of my tutors decided to teach me to play piano when I was a child—-he thought it would be good discipline—-and I showed an aptitude for it." He shrugged. "Father was unhappy with it, but tolerated it as long as no one else knew. It's really my mother's fault—-she has a weakness for Beethoven, and just keeps telling my father no one has absolutely proven yet that Beethoven _wasn't_ a wizard." A brief grin flashed and disappeared. "Father knows he'll never win that argument. Mother wanted me to keep playing piano, and Father decided to indulge her in that too. He made arrangements with Dumbledore for me to have these private"—-another pointed look—-"sessions in the music room." He gave a short laugh. "Dumbledore approved, and I think that just irked Father more."

Harry blinked at him. "So you've been doing this every night for over six years?"

"Well, almost every night. Outside of Astronomy observations and Quidditch practices and the like." He shrugged again and raised his chin. "Satisfied?"

Harry expelled a breath. "Awed, actually."

Malfoy gave him a sardonic look. "Awed. Right."

"No, I mean it," Harry protested, amazed that he was even saying this, to Malfoy of all people. He reached over and extricated one of Malfoy's hands from where it was tucked into his elbow. Malfoy at first flinched slightly at Harry's movement, then watched in confusion as Harry took the hand between his own, gripping palm-to-palm with one hand and tracing the fingers with the other. Malfoy was still, his eyes on Harry. "You have an amazing talent," Harry said, his voice low, his eyes on their joined hands, avoiding Malfoy's gaze. He shouldn't be touching Malfoy; he knew that. But he didn't release his grip on the other boy's hand.

"What are you doing, Potter?" Malfoy's voice was calm, lacking the ire or sarcasm Harry would have expected.

Harry raised his head and looked Malfoy in the eyes. "I don't know," he admitted.

Malfoy watched him for a moment, one eyebrow raised in wry expectation, then gently pulled his hand free. "Well, when you do, let me know." He turned away and reached for his robe, even though it wasn't nearly midnight yet.

"Wait—-Malfoy—-"

He turned and looked again at Harry, who had taken a step closer to him. "Yes?"

"One question."

He sighed, a long-suffering sound. "What is it?"

"Why do you play scales every time you come here?"

Malfoy's eyebrows went up. "'Every time'? My, Potter, you've been getting out a lot in the evenings, haven't you?"

Harry waited.

Malfoy gestured impatiently. "I just like them, all right? I like hearing the individual notes." He frowned, his eyes going slightly unfocused. "I like the steps, the levels." Abruptly his gaze focused on Harry again, and one eyebrow quirked upward. "There's something to be said for taking things in stages, wouldn't you say, Potter?" He turned and pulled on his robes, then flicked off the wall sconces, leaving them in near-darkness. Harry watched as he opened the door to leave, pausing only to toss over his shoulder the admonition, "I don't want to see you in here again, Potter, you got that?" He pulled the door shut behind him, leaving Harry alone in the moonlight.

"Don't worry," he murmured, fingering his Invisibility Cloak, "you won't."


End file.
